The Burden of Doubt (6 page)

‘We believe so.’

‘But you’re not going to give me any details?’

‘Not at present.’

She pressed the fingers of both hands against her cheekbones and took in some deep breaths.

Swift considered her composure remarkable – whether impressive or simply strange he was not able to judge at this point. ‘You described Moira as both a friend and as a client.’

‘We have been friends since medical school,’ Serena Fox said. ‘But in recent months she turned to me in my professional capacity.’

Swift waited.

‘There was a problem she wanted help with. I was reluctant to act as a doctor or counsellor to her. To act in such a capacity a with a friend is very difficult – and possibly irregular. But she was insistent. So – I eventually agreed. We had a number of sessions together – here, in this room.’

‘I see.’

‘And maybe it’s worth saying that I wouldn’t accept a fee. Instead she gave generous donations to a charity I support in West Africa.’

‘And the nature of the problem?’

‘You know I’m not going to tell you that, Chief Inspector Swift.’

‘Medical confidentiality?’

She shrugged. ‘I’m quite aware that confidentiality doesn’t apply once a patient is dead, but I’m still not going to tell you. Even if you start advising me of my legal obligations and so on.’

Swift ignored the challenge. ‘Did you know Moira was pregnant?’

‘Yes.’

‘And that she was expecting twins?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did she have any concerns about her pregnancy?’ he asked softly.

‘No more than every woman experiences,’ Serena Fox commented crisply.

‘Or about her marriage?’

She jerked her head around and shot him a withering look. ‘I don’t know – and even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you, not at this juncture anyway.’

Swift got up. ‘You might be enforced to do so at some point, Dr Fox,’ he pointed out quietly.

She rose too. ‘When that point comes I shall certainly take legal advice on the matter,’ she said. ‘But Moira’s killing might have nothing to do with the discussions she had with me. So what good do I do her by giving out information that might reach all and sundry? I mean no offence to you personally,’ she told Swift, ‘but you have responsibilities to your superiors and your press officers and what have you. Anything I say will be all over the media in the blink of an eye.’

Swift did not bother to dispute this. ‘When did you last see Moira?’ he asked.

‘Last Friday. She came here for a consultation at four o’clock.’ Her eyes levelled with his. ‘And left around half past five.’

‘Thank you.’ He paused. ‘And could you tell me what were you doing, Dr Fox, between five-thirty and six-thirty yesterday morning?’

For the first time there was a small flicker of uncertainty in Serena Fox’s ice-blue eyes. ‘I’m a poor sleeper,’ she said. ‘I was here in my study, keying in reports to my laptop.’

‘Alone?’

‘Yes.’ She gave a slight frown of impatience. ‘Will that be all?’

He considered. ‘For now.’

She led the way to the front door and pulled it open, letting in a rush of freezing night air. As Swift moved through the doorway she called him back.

‘I don’t mean to appear obstructive,’ she said. ‘This has been a traumatic shock for me. I need to think things through before I speak.’

He lifted his eyebrows.

‘I’m not planning to tell you any lies, Chief Inspector. I simply want to be as truthful to Moira’s memory as I can be.’

It was hard for him to keep the scepticism from showing in his face and she seemed to pick up on his doubts and to want to make amends in some way.

‘If it’s any help,’ she told him, ‘I can tell you categorically that Moira did not come to talk to me about her marriage.’ She took in a breath to speak again and then stopped.

‘I’ll be back to talk to you again,’ Swift said. ‘And I’d advise you to think very carefully about withholding any information which could be relevant to this investigation. Or indeed attempting to select what you consider relevant from what isn’t: I’ll be the judge of that.’ Without waiting for a response he turned and walked to his car.

Back in his own apartment he poured himself a glass of red, slipped a fish curry into the microwave, punched in a cooking time of four minutes and telephoned his daughter.

‘Dad?’ Her voice came on the line, all clarity and crispness, and with a slight question on the upper inflection. It meant she would be in the middle of something absorbing and not really wanting to be disturbed. That was absolutely fine; he just needed to check in
with her from time to time and ensure she was safe and as happy as one could expect a twenty year-old student to be.

‘Nothing urgent,’ he said.

‘I’m doing OK,’ she said. ‘Just putting the finishing touches on an essay due in tomorrow. And you?’

‘The same. I won’t keep you from your finishing touches.’ he said. In his head he saw her pushing strands of dark hair away from her face, her eyes glinting, a witchy grin on her fine-boned face.

‘Hey, I hear you were on national TV this morning. Some of my friends caught it.’

‘Press conference,’ he told her. ‘A high profile homicide.’

‘Next thing you’ll be getting offers from Hollywood.’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Stay just as you are, Dad,’ she said, which was nice even though she said it in tones that gave the clear signal, ‘Got to go now’.

He clicked off the connection just as the microwave began to beep. Sliding the carton from the oven, he smiled, reflecting that he could always rely on his daughter not to push up his phone bill too far.

Swift slept fitfully. Just before he woke he had a dream in which Naomi somehow aged and metamorphosed into someone else, someone with the face and body of Moira Farrell. He pulled himself from the dream feeling on edge with anxiety – a poor way to greet the day.

He stood under the shower for twice as long as usual, letting the hot water wash over his head and shoulders as he soaped himself, then turned the control to provide a final burst of cold to purge himself of the dream before stepping out.

He made fresh coffee, black and strong, put bread in the toaster, then stripped the bed and stuffed the results into the machine. From the garden flat below there were sounds of joyful dog barking intermingled with strains from Radio 3: Schubert maybe, or Beethoven. He had new neighbours, a smiling, busy couple in their thirties. Self-involved and busy they gave him no worries, a welcome improvement on the former tenant, a widow of a certain
age who had developed a brief infatuation for him and provided quite a number of concerns.

Beyond the windows it was another grey, grim day, the sky the colour of ageing slate, ice gleaming and dangerous on the surface of the pavements.

In the car he listened to the local news and was informed that his investigation was into its third day. ‘Detectives inquiring into the murder of local doctor Moira Farrell are no further forward in providing any information about possible witnesses or suspects …’ He switched over to Radio 4 and listened to an account of British soldiers being ambushed in Basra.

Arriving at the door of his office around 7.30, his general mood was not at a high point. In moments, however, things began to shift.

Tanya Blake was on the line wanting to speak to him. ‘Good morning, Chief Inspector!’ Her voice was bright with her enthusiasm for her job. ‘How’s it going?’

‘There’s room for improvement.’

‘Here’s something that could be of interest,’ she said. ‘Moira Farrell’s twin foetuses don’t share the same DNA.’ There was a thread of excitement running through the announcement.

Swift was at a loss for a few seconds. ‘So – presumably they’re not identical?’

‘No, most certainly not. Identical twins are the product of one egg which after fertilization splits and forms two separate embryos which inherit identical characteristics.’

‘Right. Of course.’ Swift began to think things through.

‘But one of Moira’s embryos doesn’t share Professor Patel’s DNA,’ she said, as though encouraging Swift to complete the puzzle.

‘So, the babies have got …’ he paused, trying to get to grips with the information she had given him, ‘different fathers,’ he finished.

‘You got it,’ she confirmed cheerily.

He took a few seconds before replying. ‘I was thinking of asking if that was possible. But clearly, from you’ve just told me it is.’

‘Thanks for your vote of confidence. Yes, it is indeed possible. If a woman releases more than one egg during her cycle, then each one has a chance of being fertilized. For most women who have non-identical twins each separate egg has been fertilized by the same man’s sperm, usually her husband or partner. However, if a woman ovulates, produces two eggs and has two sexual partners during the time of fertility, then she can produce children who have different paternity.’

Swift glanced towards the window looking out into the raw damp of the morning as he absorbed the information.

‘The phenomenon first came to light on the slave plantations in the North America,’ Tanya continued, helpfully. ‘One or two doctors noticed that black women slaves who produced twins sometimes had one baby who seemed to have different characteristics from their own ethnic group – facial bone structure which was more Caucasian than African, a lighter skin, unusual eye colour and so on.’

Tapping his fingers against the desk-top, Swift traced the descent of a teardrop falling from an icicle clinging to the window-frame and sliding down the glass. ‘White plantation owners raping African women?’

‘That’s the general idea.’

Swift clicked off the connection, wondering if there would be anything he would hear that day to top Tanya’s twin story. And then there was the issue of breaking the news to Rajesh Patel.

Shaun Busfield was drinking his mug of morning tea, muttering to himself and roaming restlessly around the room, unable to settle. Freezing damp was seeping from the walls which Shaun had stripped of their paper and Tina had inadequately tried to patch up with pink emulsion the colour of Elastoplast. And because one of Shaun’s recent DIY efforts had been to pull out the old storage heaters used by the previous tenants, the only heat in the room came from a single bar electric fire which had once belonged to Shaun’s mother, and was probably a relic from the 1950s.

‘Sit down, will you,’ Tina nagged him. ‘You’re making me feel all on edge.’ She was standing under the single light-bulb hanging from the ceiling, putting on her mascara, staring into a tiny pocket mirror and concentrating hard. She was dressed for work; a tight white sweater, a tiny black denim skirt and black high heels.

‘Why do you make funny shapes with your lips when you’re messing about with your eyes?’ Shaun demanded.

‘I’m not,’ she said.

‘Yes, you are.’

‘Oh, stop trying to stir things.’ She glanced at him, anxious yet defiant. ‘What’s up with you, anyway?’

‘Nowt. I’m just thinking.’

‘What about?’

‘Oh, Jesus! Shut it, woman.’ He felt a sense of hopelessness flood over him. Thoughts of his gran hurt so much, of how he’d
treated her, taken her for granted, ignored her, made her feel a useless old bitch. How he’d not realized what she’d meant to him until she’d gone. He hated hurting, in fact he didn’t think he could stand it another minute.

He turned his thoughts to work the day before, the way the police had come swaggering in, accusing folks right left and centre, nicking their shoes for Christ’s sake. Cocky bastards, they thought they could do what they bloody liked. ‘A murder investigation,’ they’d said, all puffed up with their own importance. Not only could they do what they wanted, they could
take
what they wanted. Bloody thieving jerks, making him peel off his shoes and hand ’em over. He’d had to borrow a pair of ropey trainers from one of his pals. They didn’t fit him properly and they smelled like a fusty fox’s den. Not that he’d ever been near a fox’s den.

Oh, he knew all about the police all right.

The stirrings of anger made him feel better. Anger was better than hurting. In fact anger could be bloody brilliant, working you up, right up to a bloody climax. Like sex. Not that he got much of that these days. He’d thought Tina’d be a good lay when he first pulled her. But she turned out to be mostly giggle and tickle, more worried about getting her hair messed up and not doing anything ‘mucky’, as she called it, than giving him his thrills. He glanced at her now, fiddling around with her nails, silly cow. She was tasty though, nice tits and a good bum on her. He wondered about a quickie before he set off for work. Nah, forget it. She’d just duck and dive and bob away from him. No point getting himself worked up all for nothing.

He pulled his thoughts back to the police. The plain clothes bloke with his smug little smile, the uniforms grinning and showing off, pleased as punch with themselves for having the licence to strut about like turkey cocks and lord it over everyone else. He’d keep that picture in his head today and for the days to come, let his hatred of the police mature and grow, until it was fully ripe, until it was truly sweet to taste – like the best cider.

‘Twins fathered by different blokes!’ Doug’s mouth was literally dropping open as he listened to Swift’s account of his
conversation
with Tanya Blake. ‘I’ve always said you’ve got the chance of learning something new every day in this job.’

Laura agreed. ‘It’s certainly a good tale to tell my mum.’

‘So Moira was cheating on Patel,’ Doug reflected. ‘And we’re going to have to find the guy she was doing it with?’

Swift nodded. ‘I’d guess it’s unlikely the good doctor Farrell was the victim of rape.’

‘Do we ask Patel as first go off?’ Laura wondered, giving an internal wince at the prospect.

‘That’s one way,’ Swift said. ‘Alternatively we could approach Moira’s GP to see what he or she might know. And we should also go back to her colleagues in the hospital team and root them out for questioning, no matter what else they’re up to.’

‘The workplace being a hotbed of adultery,’ Laura commented in support of her boss’s final suggestion.

Swift’s mobile trilled. ‘Yes?’

It was Finch with a summons for the DCI to go to his office. Urgency reverberated in the superintendent’s voice.

‘SOCOs have found a pair of heavily bloodstained trainers buried in the Farrell’s garden,’ he told Swift without preamble as he walked through the door. ‘I’ve had the shoes rushed to the lab; the technicians have promised to get the results through ASAP.’ There was a quiet air of excitement in Finch’s usually leaden demeanour.

As he listened, Swift was considering the various possible issues behind Finch’s words. ‘Right.’

‘Let’s hope we’ve got our man.’ Finch turned back to the paperwork on his desk.

‘Yes.’

Finch looked up, noticing that his DCI was still in thought. ‘That’s all, Ed,’ he said. ‘For the moment. Let me know when the results are through. I’ve asked the lab to contact you directly.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Swift said, opening the door and reflecting that one must be grateful for small mercies.

The call came through within the hour. A young man’s voice, not one of the scientists Swift had spoken with previously.

‘DCI Swift?’ The voice was soft, hesitant even.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m phoning with information for you.’

‘Carry on.’ Swift’s attention was totally focused.

‘Regarding the pairs of trainers Constable Wilson brought in yesterday for examination, we’ve found no traces of blood on any of the four shoes.’

Well, thanks a lot, Swift thought. ‘Right.’ He prepared to close the connection.

‘But we’ve got some further information.’ There was the sound of paper rustling, making Swift suspect the technician was nervous, anxious not to make a blunder. He reminded himself how vulnerable professionals were when analysing and interpreting information in a murder case, how careful they had to be.

‘There was a significant amount of blood on the shoes SOCO found in Mrs Farrell’s garden,’ the technician continued. ‘And the blood group matches that of the victim.’

‘I’m assuming you haven’t got a DNA match as yet.’

‘Not yet, I’m making it a priority. But it’s not a common blood group so it’s very likely to be Mrs Farrell’s blood.’

‘Any DNA available from the trainers?’

‘Yes, we’ve managed to pick up some traces from a hair in one of the shoes.’

‘But, again, another wait?’

‘Afraid so. But I can tell you that the size and type of trainer we got from SOCO corresponds very closely with those of one of the pairs of trainers your constable found. And from the way both pairs have worn, it looks very likely they belong to the same person.’

‘Is there a match for the prints found at the crime scene?’

‘Unfortunately we can’t say that there’s any more than a partial match. SOCOs weren’t able to get clear photo images, mainly because the amount of blood surrounding the body caused the prints to merge together.’

‘But information on the traces of the prints SOCOs sent us do show a number of positive reference points?’

‘Yes, but not enough to be certain we’re looking at the same trainers.’

‘And the trainers our constable brought in belong to?’ Swift’s habitually even tone was now harsh and urgent.

‘A man called Shaun Busfield.’ There was more rustling of paper. ‘He works at a plumbers’ merchants on the Bradford Road in Guiseley.’

‘Right, thanks for that,’ he told the scientist.

‘A breakthrough, sir?’ Laura enquired as Swift slipped his phone back in the inner pocket of his jacket.

‘Let’s hope so.’ He gave his two listeners the details, already on his feet, poised to raise a backup team and then leave.

Following on behind the younger members of the team, Doug smiled to himself, recalling the footwork slog of the day before which seemed now to be bearing fruit. There was nothing like a piece of solid evidence to make everything else seem like idle gossip.

Shaun was just draining the last dregs of his tea when there was a sudden, horrible jangling in his ears. The sound of sirens wailing. Squad cars, yellow, cream and blue screeched to a halt outside the house.

Harsh, scalding breath coursed through his airways. ‘Jesus! The flaming filth. They’re coming. They must be coming for me.’

‘
Now
what have you done?’ Tina’s eyes were wide with foreboding.

Shaun didn’t wait to answer her. He was out of the back door, vaulting over the fence at the edge of the stringy grass and winging it into the wasteland that stretched up the hill at the back of the estate. ‘Christ Jesus, save me,’ he muttered, his heart pounding as he gathered speed. He put on a monumental spurt, willing his legs to work harder, knowing full well Jesus had never bothered getting him out of a spot before.

Followed by Laura, Swift picked his way down the entrance passage in Shaun Busfield’s house. The cold of the place struck him as though a freezing cloth had been laid on the skin of his face and hands. And the smell of damp was earthy and penetrating.

‘God!’ Laura muttered behind him, looking down at the
bumpy, undulating floor as she squeezed past a large bike propped up against the wall. The surface was actual dirt, a mixture of sand and clay you could probably grow stuff in, but as it was January the frost was coming through. Scraps of cardboard had been laid down as some kind of protection from the raw elements, but they were fighting a losing battle. Looking more closely she could see that there had been floorboards there once upon a time as there were struts protruding from the wall just above the level of the ground. So was Shaun Busfield a disaster at DIY, or simply a madman?

A small, skinny woman was standing at the door of the
living-room
. Swift and Laura had to take a steep step up from the hall to join her. Laura felt her feet stick on the carpet, which she guessed had once been a dark blue, but was now covered with dirt trodden in the from the hall.

‘He’s not here,’ the woman said defensively. A statement which was hardly necessary, as a team of uniforms could be seen dashing past the window which looked out on to the back of the house, in hot pursuit of their quarry.

Swift showed his identity. ‘May we sit down?’ he asked.

Looking agitated the woman gathered up the assortment of newspapers, envelopes and crisp packets littering the cushions of a stained blue velvet settee, then stood aside to allow the visitors to sit.

‘And you are?’ Swift looked into the woman’s face, asking the question with kindly interest.

‘Tina.’ She quickly dumped the rubbish she had gathered on the floor behind the sofa. The envelopes went behind the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Tina Frazer.’

‘Is Shaun Busfield your boyfriend?’

She hesitated. ‘Yes, well, I suppose you could call it that. We’ve been living together for going on a year now.’

‘You sound as though you’re doubtful about whether you’re still friends,’ Laura remarked, her tone matter-of-fact and kindly.

Tina Frazer stared at her, suspicious and defensive. ‘He’s not an easy bloke to live with.’ She stopped, as though considering that last statement, and possibly regretting it. ‘But he’s not all bad.’ She
glanced down at her watch, a chunky affair with a shiny silver bracelet and a huge lilac face which looked enormous on her slender wrist. ‘I should be getting off to work,’ she said.

‘What work do you do, Tina?’ Laura asked.

‘I’m a beauty therapist.’

‘Facials, manicures and so on?’ Laura suggested.

Tina nodded. ‘What are you after Shaun for?’ she demanded.

‘In connection with a murder enquiry,’ Swift told her.

She flinched as she took in his words. ‘Oh, my God! No!’ She fidgeted with the hem of her sweater. ‘When was it, this murder?’

‘Some time around six in the morning last Tuesday,’ Swift told her.

‘Do you know where Shaun was at that time?’ Laura asked.

‘Yeah. He was here. Well, he would be, wouldn’t he? He’s a bit of lazy beggar, doesn’t get up until around seven, and even then I have to nearly kick him of bed.’

‘So he was here with you at the time the murder was committed?’ Laura insisted.

‘Yeah, sure. He was here.’ She put the nail of her thumb between her teeth and began to tear at it. Realizing the damage she was doing to her manicure she snapped her teeth shut and yanked the nail back out. ‘Was it that woman on the news?’ she said, her eyes sharpening with conjecture. ‘That doctor?’

Swift nodded.

‘Oh, God!’

‘Did you know Dr Farrell?’

Tina shook her head.

‘Did Shaun know Dr Farrell?’

There was a beat of hesitation. ‘No.’ She looked from one officer to the other, her eyes wide beneath the flutter of lashes thick with mascara. ‘You don’t really think Shaun did this, do you? He’s not a killer. I mean he can be a bit handy with his slaps when he’s had a few drinks—’

Swift broke in. ‘Are you saying that when he’s had a drink he hits you?’

She coloured. ‘Well, just the once or twice. And I’ve told him if he ever does it again, I’m off – and that’s the end of it.’

‘Right.’ In the pause that followed Swift was aware of the tick of a clock which he hadn’t noticed before. ‘If our boys don’t catch up with him, where do you think Shaun’s making for, Tina?’

‘I don’t know.’ She pressed her lips together, mulish and defiant.

‘Does he have a car?’

‘No. He cycles everywhere. Or walks.’ She eyed the two detectives with heavy suspicion. ‘He’s dead fit,’ she said.

‘You must have some idea where he’s gone,’ Laura pointed out evenly. ‘A mate’s place, maybe. Or his parents? Brothers and sisters?’

‘His parents are both dead. And his sister lives somewhere in London. I don’t think he’s seen her in years.’

‘Do you have an address for her?’ Swift asked, suspecting the answer would be negative.